disclaimage: I don't own anything associated with Dunder Mifflin Paper Products. But, at the Hard Rock Cafe yesterday, I saw a kid with a Dunder Mifflin shirt, and that made me happy. I wish I owned that shirt, since I can't own The Office.
mg: thanks for the review! Dwight and Stanley are amazing ) glad you liked it
weareborgg: thanks for the review, too! Sorry it took me like, an eternity to update it! but i'm glad you liked it anyway )
Dwight scampers frantically into the parking lot, almost tripping himself up over a small rock that he was certain Jim placed there. He finally makes it to his car, and jerks the door handle open, only to discover that it was locked, and that he left his keys up in the office, in his desk drawer.
"Damn it," he gasps, his hands on his knees. He doesn't want to do this, but he doesn't want to run up five flights of stairs again, either. He flips open his cell phone, punches in a bunch of numbers, and listens impatiently to the dial tone.
"There was no choice here," Dwight insists. "I had to keep my energy up, and I wasn't gonna waste it running back up to get my stupid car keys!" A pause. "Unless, of course, I had some Glacier Freeze Gatorade. That would be a different story, but there's no Gatorade to be found."
Michael's sitting in his office, making a pros and cons list about calling himself "Moppin' Michael" that Halloween on that little whiteboard he always has that's propped up on a three-legged stand, when he suddenly is blasted by Kelly Clarkson singing "Walk Away." His cheeks reddening, he snatches the phone and quickly flips it open.
"Some guy at the phone store programmed it," Michael tells us, holding the phone up a few feet away from him, like it has a disease. "I haven't been able to figure out how to change it yet. So sue me!"
"Hello?"
"Michael, Michael!"
"Dwight? I thought you went to…" A small snicker escapes Michael as he turns to the camera and makes a pathetic attempt at a wink. "…I thought you went to Boppin' Bob's."
"I forgot my keys in my drawer. You're the only one who has the key to unlock it; can you get them and bring them down here? I swear on my life that I'll never ask you for anything else requiring large amounts of manual labor for the rest of my time at Dunder Mifflin," Dwight pleads.
"Oh, God, Dwight," Michael says dramatically. "I've got so much work to do here, and I just don't know if I'll have enough time…"
"Please, Michael!" Dwight yelps. "Please! I need to get Little Dwight back! I, I, I'll sharpen all your pencils for a year!"
"You'll sharpen my pencils?"
"Yes!"
"What if I'm using a pen?"
"Then I'll buy you more for when the ink runs out! Please, Michael! We could be running out of time!"
"Fine," Michael tells him, shoving his roller chair away from his desk and standing up. "I'll be down in a minute."
"Thank you, Michael! Thank you!"
"Sometimes," Michael reasons, "you've just got to do a good thing for your fellow man. It's just like that saying. The one, uh, you know, the one where you do somethin' good for someone else, and then you get a reward, y'know? Well, my reward was free pens/free pencil sharpener. Let that be a lesson to you kids out there."
Michael walks out into the office, and nobody really looks up at him except for Jim, only because his desk is right next to Dwight's. Michael peeks around suspiciously, then reaches his hand under Dwight's desk calendar. Jim notices, but doesn't say anything. He just watches from behind his computer monitor, glancing back at Pam every so often and coughing or snapping his fingers slightly, trying to get her attention. Pam sniffs a little, which was supposed to let Jim know that she was looking. It took him a few sniffs, but he finally understood her funky little message thing.
"Isn't that Dwight's desk, Michael?" Jim asks.
Michael straightens, slipping the key into his pocket. "It is, Jim," he answers. "But, Dwight has run into a tiny bit of trauma." He motions with his hands. "A teeny, tiny, itty, bitty, bit of trauma, and he has called upon Michael Scott to bail him out!"
There's a very soft thud on the carpeted floor, and Jim glances down to see Dwight's key. Michael missed his pocket.
"Okay, then," Jim decides. "Good luck with that."
"Thank you, soldier!" Michael yelps, saluting Jim and then strutting out of the office like a general, or an attorney general. Whichever one you like better.
"He did what?" Jim asks in disbelief as he watches the cameraman imitate Michael's attempt at a wink. Jim imitates the cameraman's imitation, and his right eye twitches a little, as if he had just been stung by a bee. In the process, his left eye gets wide.
"A Michael Scott wink," Jim chuckles. With that, he pulls Dwight's key out of his pocket. "Boppin' Bob's is at least forty-five miles from here, according to the business card. It'll be pretty hard to walk there, if I do say so myself."
Michael emerges from the entrance to Dunder Mifflin Paper Products, Inc., and Dwight runs up to him, immediately serenading him with praise and thanks, as if he were some god who came back from the dead. Maybe, to Dwight, that's exactly what Michael was. Don't know for sure, though. Wouldn't that be creepy if it was? Shudder.
"Thank you so much, Michael!" Dwight swoons, handing Michael a pack of Bic pens that he found inside Meredith's van.
"She left her doors unlocked; it was her own fault," Dwight explains.
"You're welcome, Dwight," Michael says in that hearty little tone he puts on sometimes, you know the one I'm trying to talk about?, and casts a grinning glance at the camera. "I'll just…oh."
Dwight's face falls.
Michael begins to pat himself down, muttering, "I could've sworn I…I definitely had it…"
"Was it there? In the desk?" Dwight pauses. "It must've been Jim! I knew I couldn't trust Halpert! He stole it!"
"Dwight! Stop! Jim didn't steal your stupid key. I must've just dropped it in the office or something," Michael reasons.
"Boppin' Bob's is gonna close in a half hour, Michael," Dwight whines nervously. "We'll never be able to make it there in time if we don't drive."
Simultaneously, both of their eyes go to Michael's car. Their eyes connect, and Dwight's turn into little puppy dog's.
"Dwight, come on," Michael says, catching on immediately to Dwight's ideas.
"Please, Michael!" Before he can do anything, Dwight's down on his knees, staring up at Michael pleadingly. "I need to get Little Dwight back. I promise I'll never ask you for anything again!"
Michael pauses. "Fine," he mutters. "Just don't, like, mess anything up. Or anything." Dwight jumps up, hugs Michael quickly, and then jumps back, suddenly aware of his huggage.
"I…um," Dwight stammers.
"Yeah…" Michael breathes.
"That didn't happen," they agree together.
"Why do I want Little Dwight back so badly?" Dwight repeats the question. "He's like a son. My Dwight, Junior. And if you have a Dwight, Junior, or a Michael, Junior, or any type of Junior, then you know what I mean."
Just before the camera stops rolling, Dwight casts a sideways glance at Angela.